Disclaimer:  Paramount owns The Star Trek Universe.  This story is set

in my slash-filled Overloaded Spock Operator Universe, but the

characters therein belong to Paramount.





"Mentor"

--------



This I should not have done.  Ensign Chekov is still a child.  He will

not understand the warm comfort of friendship combined with the lack

of desire.  I will have to burn out that desire soon.  I did not the

first time, nor the second.  I did not want to frighten him, and so I

barely touched his mind.  He is sweet against me now, in the darkness

and warmth of my quarters.  His body is cool, human-cool, and his skin

is faintly bruised where I lost control of myself and gripped him too

tightly.  He breathes softly in his sleep.



I remember when he came on board, awkward and eager to please, like a

young sehlat.  He was already a talented navigator and he had a flair

for science--and not only the areas related to space navigation.  He

was interested in almost everything, and he learned so quickly.  His

history was flawed and his Standard occasionally uncertain, but he was

young and he lit up rooms when he walked into them.



I took great pleasure in teaching him.  Teasing the tendrils of

thought from his mind--a healthy mind, questioning, alert, not scarred

with trauma like Jim's (though Jim's mind is excellent, there are

shadows in him that are not in Pavel).  Once I could get him to

remember that not everything comes from Mother Russia, it was well

between us.  



The second month he was with us, I found him in the officer's mess,

playing idly with one of the chess pieces.  He reminded me of the way

my brother had looked, the last time I saw him.  The same sort of

sadness. I sat down across from him and touched his shoulder.  He

raised his head and was shocked when he saw that it was me.



"Sair, I thought...I thought Vulcans didn't..."



"Did not touch?"



He nodded.



"Vulcans are a telepathic race, Ensign.  Unplanned touches can cause

unplanned mental contact.  Unplanned mental contact can cause damage.

But we do...touch.  In many ways.  For many reasons."



He blinked, and I not-smiled at him.  "Ask...Lieutenants DeSalle or

Leslie.  They will tell you."  I leaned forward, my hand still on his

shoulder.  "What is troubling you, Ensign?"



He looked away.  "I..."



And I knew.  He'd fallen in love, and been burned.  "Who is it?"



He was shocked again, shocked that I had read him so easily.  "No

one."



"Male or female?"



He hadn't expected the question.  Or, more accurately, he hadn't

expected it of me.  Of the Vulcan First Officer.  Still, he answered.



"Male."  He was half-afraid I would damn him for it, I think.  He,

like so many other humans, firmly believed that Vulcans were not only

sexless, but rather cruelly homophobic.  (Incidentally, that is an

interesting viewpoint.  I am not certain where humans acquired it.

Some Vulcan parents bond their children in homosexual pairs if they

perceive that this is how the children will be happiest. Bonding is

for individual survival, not for ensuring reproduction. Surak's oldest

son was bonded to another male; I am a descendent. Vulcans, as a

whole, are a discreetly promiscuous race--and distinctly bisexual.) 



I not-smiled at him again.  He sighed and said "Sulu, sair."



This was a trifle upsetting.  It could affect how they worked

together, the safety of the ship, Jim--



"Have you told him?"



"No.  He does not like men.  And he is getting married on his next

leave."



"I am aware of that.  Perhaps--"



"No--I mean, Commander Spock, thank you, but I must...cope with this

by myself.  Please, sair."



I left him there, his fingers rolling the pawn up and down the table.



Now he shifts against me, and I remember kissing him for the first

time, three weeks ago.  He had been chewing on a fingernail while

working on a a problem I had set him, and I took his finger out of his

mouth. Somehow, I forgot to let go of his hand.  He had not protested;

rather, he had stepped closer to me.  How had I failed to notice his

growing preoccupation with me?  I was usually so careful, planned

things so well--and this boy caught me unaware.



He smelled of youth and cleanliness then, as his body swayed into

mine, as his hand tangled in my hair and his lips parted.  The memory

is arousing.  I don't love him, I know that.  I treasure his company,

the smell and feel of him, the way he feels under me, and now, his

head on my shoulder, the ripple of his breath on my skin.  I know what

I must do.  I turn my head and inhale.  Pavel smells of youth and

fresh musk now, and my body reacts to him.  I reach out for his mind,

and decide: *not just yet, Spock.  One more time before you end it.*



If Jim knew how much tampering I've done with the minds of vital

personnel he would never forgive me.  If he suspected that my close

"friends" were modified lovers, changed in the ancient Vulcan

tradition of the little-bonding--but he doesn't, and he won't, not

until I finally take him to my bed, give in to my love for him and my

need.



I rouse Pavel and make love to him one last time.  He trembles against

me afterwards, aftershocks flowing through him.  I soothe them with a

mindtouch so gentle he never even notices.  We fall asleep in each

other's arms.



Shortly before ship's dawn, I wake.  Pavel--Ensign Chekov, now, since

soon we will no longer share a bed--is still asleep.  He looks younger

than ever.  I fit my body around his and reach into his mind.  I am

more gentle than I have ever been, and he does not stir as I burn his

desire for me out of his mind, out of his body.



There will be a warmth between us now, a friendship deep and

unshakable.  He and I were not meant for each other.  He did not love

me, nor I him--there was trust and respect and pleasure there, but no

love, and it is better this way.  He will be confused, but not

frightened, by his lack of desire, and he will end it himself.  There

will be no bitterness, no heartbreak--just the warmth of the

little-bonding.



Why then, am I crying?



---

the end